


(Don't) Look at the World

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Arthur-centric, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, M/M, Orwellian Dystopia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Questionable Sobriety, Smut, Trash Curt, post-Tommy Stone Concert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Arthur had banished the ghosts of his past from his waking hours, had kept them at bay even through the fateful assignment that forced him to recall the life he'd left behind. He had fought to keep hold on the menial but clean existence he'd carved out for himself an ocean away. Until the moment he choked on the surprise slipped into his damn beer...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a VG fan for many years, but never wrote for the fandom before now. Much like Arthur, I only have a vague idea of what will come next. If you want more, and there will be more - let me know.

New York City: The Center of the Universe. Where a man could rise to the highest heights, sink to the lowest lows, or simply disappear into the throbbing mass of humanity that crowded the streets night and day. It was here, in the city that never sleeps, that Arthur contemplated his own insomniac ways. Ok, he wasn't technically an insomniac – he did manage a few hours sleep per night, as well as the occasional unintended nap at his desk in the office. But in those hours been waking, while the fluorescent hum of the pizza parlors and strip joints sang their unsavory songs, he was gripped with restless dreams. Memories. Flashbacks. Call them what you will, it didn't matter. He had been fine. He had been normal. He had been comfortably numb to the realities of his life, and, by day, gratefully detached from the fairies and demons of his past.

_But all that went away. With Curt._

A ten-year-old leather jacket, somehow looking almost like new. Limp blond hair with exaggerated black roots. A bottle of cheap beer. How the man still managed to look like a fucking god, Arthur did not know. Supposedly he'd been a junkie, had a violent temper. Supposedly he had been a poster child for rock and roll bad boy behavior. Supposedly his split from Slade had wrecked his mind, his heart, his career. It all seemed plausible enough, but who the hell knew. Who the hell cared anymore.

_Arthur stared at the largest crack in the ceiling. The one he was sure would give out one day and kill him in his sleep. He hoped it was a quick death. Painless. He didn't reckon his life had been worth much, but he thought he deserved at least that._

He'd said, "We just ended up changing ourselves." He didn't seem changed. Perhaps less carefree. Less spontaneous and reckless and… well, not high. Age and sobriety – that alone would do it. And what of himself? What of Arthur? He had never set out the change the world. He had only aimed to ride the wave, to let it carry him as far as it could before breaking into an artful catastrophe upon the cliffs. Catastrophe, sure. Artful – well. That was barely even debatable. An estranged father whose name was signed to birthday cards by his mum. A mediocre position as a journalist at a low budget newspaper in a town already saturated by print media. And let's face it; it wasn't the bloody Times, was it? So he hadn't changed the world either, and yes, to all appearances, he had changed himself. Of that he had been certain. Until tonight.

_Jacket, wallet, keys. He wasn't sleeping anyway, so fuck it. If his mind was still sitting in that damn bar, his body may was well join. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. It was stupid. He shouldn't. And yet… Arthur cursed under his breath as he slipped the shimmering green pin into his pocket._


	2. Chapter 2

The gaggle of squealing teenagers had gone. He couldn’t help but take pity on them. They’d been so eager to graze fame. They’d been so pathetic. So much like him. If only they’d known how close they really were. If they’d bothered to look just a few feet further down the bar… But they didn’t have an ear for music, only an eye for glitter. And glitter had died, exactly one lifetime ago by Arthur’s reckoning.

_He’d believed, once, that he might climb that ladder to the stars. Turned out the ladder had indeed been composed only of_

Apologizing to the bloke who’d asked the wrong ‘pal’ for a cigarette, he’d scrubbed the water hard over his face with both hands before reaching blindly for the translucent sandpaper that passed for a towel. The restroom itself may as well have been the alley behind this bar for all its accommodations. He couldn’t bring himself to look into the mirror; making eye contact with someone intent on lingering in the men’s toilet was the last thing he needed at the end of this bleeding hell he called a week.

_“So you didn’t then,” he heard as his left foot crossed the threshold of the open door. The loneliness of the near-empty barroom highlighted the foolishness of his errand, but even in his desperation to feel grounded in real life, he had no interest in whatever - “allow yourself the freedom?”_

It stung, words that had once meant so much unknowingly being used as a cheap pick-up line, or maybe a code intended to score drugs. He reached into his jacket pocket, hoping the ripped liner hadn’t caught the ornate edges of that symbol of the man he never became, of that “gorgeous, gorgeous time” that had slipped within inches of his grasp. It hit the stained edge of the washbasin with a small, tinny clack, and he walked out, not stopping until he was back under the protective cover of night. It had started to rain; a weak, chilled patter on his shoulders which served to increase his misery and therefore felt wearily appropriate. The splash of undisguised footprints behind him neither surprised nor worried him. He’d been exposed for what he was, if only to himself. Let him be mugged, asked for spare change, patently ignored. What did it matter. All he longed for was the cold light of morning, when he could pick up some bullshit assignment about the mayor’s good deeds and move on with his life as it had been before he’d been forced to remember.

_About a block further and he’d be home. Back to his dingy flat, his hot plate, his non-existent existence. “Neither have I.” Everything froze but his eyes, silently trying to see over his shoulder without turning his head. “I, uh… listen, I guess you don’t smoke, but, d’you mind if I stop for a pack?” Arthur turned and nodded, leading them into an all-night bodega without speaking a word. There’d be time for that, he supposed. After._


	3. Chapter 3

He almost apologized for the lack of a lift, but given the paint-splattered steps and the humming fluorescent bulbs casting an other-worldly pallor on the green (no doubt, lead) paint, he suspected it wasn’t necessary.  He pushed away the sense of embarrassment rising as he jiggled the key in his splintering brown door. Curt had been a heroin addict; he had likely seen worse than this. And it wasn’t as though he was being forced back to Arthur’s flat. He hadn’t even been invited, come to that. Yet there he was, striding through the door as if he’d been in the one-room apartment  a million times.  The former singer - Arthur assumed former, anyway - began stripping off his jacket the moment they were sealed inside, roaming around, picking up personal objects as though he had every right.

_ Perhaps he did, though. Have the right. Hadn’t he been the making of the man that almost was; the boy who, for a brief shining moment, he had in fact been? A beer was pressed into his hand. His own lager, from his own nearly empty refrigerator.  Those years in America had convinced him to drink it cold, though he’d never admit to it back home. Back home. The accidental turn of phrase ran on a loop through his mind, sending a physical chill down his spine. _

‘So,’ came the question from the edge of the mattress. ‘So,’ was the only response needed before Curt rucked up the edge of his t-shirt and slid down the zip on his fly. Arthur took a deep swig of his beer, restraining the cough that threatened at the base of his throat. His eyes teared slightly, but in the dim light it went unnoticed. The soft cotton of worn denim, fitting tighter than was in fashion, was in no way reminiscent of the space-age reflective leather that had been peeled away just far enough that night. He hissed as the icy metal button grazed the back of his hand, and he felt Curt start, clearly uncertain whether he’d changed his mind.

_ He hadn’t. After tracking down people with no interest in being found, coercing them to provide painful details of lives too fully lived, dragging the depths of his repressed memories for a point in time he had almost convinced himself had never existed - something had to give. And apparently, that something was him. _

It slid easily across his tongue despite the miles and years. The smell of stale smoke and cold and sweat mingled, resurrecting an idea, an identity, just out of reach. He relaxed his throat reflexively, pressing the other man down onto the bed to take him in at his own pace. He braced himself with one forearm against the thrift store duvet while his other hand held his guest steady at the base, keeping rough zipper teeth at bay. As his moist lips trailed swiftly up the hot length, cheeks hollowing with unconscious suction, he felt strong fingers thread surprisingly gently into his hair, bringing him down, down, harder, faster, with a faltering rhythm. He’d leave his own body to be attended later, alone - the same perfunctory act performed on too many sleepless nights. But this time, at least, the accompanying mental image would be a fresh one.


	4. Chapter 4

The wan light from the buzzing hallway fluorescents pooled on the threshold. ‘Ok if sometime I…’ Curt shrugged, American accent rough on a tired tongue. ‘Sure,’ he returned, uncertain - uncaring - whether he meant it. For now, all he craved was sleep, assisted by a few quickly swallowed beers and an aspirin. It wasn’t a headache precisely, but he didn’t know what else to call it. He was almost grateful for it, this dull painless throb in the corner of his mind; he could focus on it instead of what it signified. 

_ Arthur was still that night. For the first time in so many years, the relief of a dreamless sleep filled the hours that remained. There weren’t enough, but they were deep, restful. As the grey light of dawn caused him to flinch into consciousness, he reflected through the fog that he’d forgotten it could be that way. A stretch, a shave, and he’d be back to himself. A takeaway coffee encased in styrofoam and he’d be back to his senses. Back where he belonged… _

The office was cold, despite him being the last to arrive. His assignments bin held only a torn half-sheet of paper: 750 on the Stone show, then take the day. He was being rewarded for his presumed good behavior. What would be the point in fighting back, he wondered, when no one cared. He’d run yesterday, chased his editor down, yelled after him. The scandal would ruin his own career, and maybe he would take Stone down with him. But what was he trying to prove, really. Expose a pop singer? Not the noble pursuit that he’d once imagined to be the work of a print journalist.

_ But if Tommy Stone was Brian Slade, then Brian Slade still existed. Or perhaps, in a way, he was still safely dead. The latter thought brought awkward comfort. It left the past in the past. Which meant that, ten years or ten hours ago, none of it had ever even- _

The tin ring of the phone made him jump. Lifting the receiver to his ear, he answered with just his name. A guarded voice informed him that ‘they’d leave him alone if he left it alone,’ then rung off. He had already made his decision; the value of his own life wasn’t much, but, after all, it was his. It was all he had. That, and just possibly…

_ No. He had tried to convince himself it’d been a flashback, a dream, but since he’d had none, that path to denial was sufficiently blocked. Where had the dreams gone, then? Where did they go on those silent grey-brown nights? The nights that other people, normal people, were allowed to have from time to time. And that he, if he played his cards right, might have again tonight. _


	5. Chapter 5

Curt walked in as if it were just a casual visit. The afternoon sun hadn’t even set and here he was, about to engage in who knew exactly what with another man.

_ And they say it isn’t “natural.” _

Arthur had once identified with Slade’s claim of bisexuality, though now he suspected he was something else. Something other. No, that wasn’t right. Something less. Something less than bisexual, yes, and maybe something a little less than fully sexual on the whole. Because it didn’t drive him as it did other men. Even correcting for the excessive displays of masculinity required by a changing-but-unchanged society, he knew his need to be less. Yet, there was still a modicum of desire. 

_ Desire for what? A bit for sex was still there, true. But dominant was his desire for an answer, for an identity, for a box in which to place himself in this era of razor sharp self-definition.  _

The potential facilitator of this long-avoided determination had stretched out on the bed and was leaning over, examining the scant record collection. To Arthur’s relief, neither Slade nor Curt himself featured in what he’d carted over from England. They had been part of what was left behind. He nodded his assent to the selection of something by Bolan and sat, legs to the side, facing his guest - who grabbed him firmly by the back of the neck and pulled him down into a horizontal kiss. It was dry, passionless, a means to progress to the now unbuttoned jeans, the push of pants down over hips, the harsh unlubricated drag of flesh pumping against flesh. A slick hand broke the almost-welcome discomfort, sliding over each of them in turn, wringing sighs of relief from above and grunts of pleasure from below. 

_ Grasping hands at his hips, knees and toes steadying himself as he was held in place, the rutting against him growing faster, harder, ‘oh yeah’ and equally unpoetic ‘fuck’ being uttered into the shared space between sets of closed eyelids. A faltering movement, a bitten off curse, and an end to two cotton jerseys. _

Curt thanked him for the borrowed shirt, promised to return it ‘next time,’ with a confidence that embarrassed Arthur. Was he a foregone conclusion? Was it spelled too clearly on his face? Or was this just the singer’s way of asking without giving an opening for rejection? No, Curt Wild didn’t face rejection. It’s likely that the one time it’d happened was an isolated experience in his life - too bad for him, it’d been actual love. This wasn’t love. This was barely a fling. This was… 

_ Arthur closed the door on Curt and his own budding defense. He didn’t want to know what this was. He wanted to know what he was, and end it at that. Well, this made two times in as many days. It wasn’t a pattern yet, but the real evidence wouldn’t come until nightfall, when he laid his head down on faded linens and waiting to see what, if anything, would come before the dawn. _


	6. Chapter 6

The voice that answered the phone was female. Arthur paused a beat too long, wondering if he’d misdialed. ‘Hello,’ she chimed again, inquiring without irritation. He asked haltingly whether Curt Wild was available. Why he’d used his full name, he couldn’t say, but he felt like an idiot as soon as the syllables passed his lips, and as the woman covered the receiver to speak to the man in question, he took the opportunity to disconnect. She had slipped into the faintest hint of a British accent, and it told him all he needed to know.

_ Mandy. He’d seen them together that night, so many eons ago, toasting the death of their genre, their youth, their shared love. Given how she’d spoken of Curt so very recently, if she was with him now, it could only have been he, himself, who had brought them together. Would he be a topic of conversation? His inquiries, his failed publication of the truth? As if he knew what truth meant. He, the man who denied himself, his past, the one factor in his present that had continued, all that week, to afford him the sleep he’d been lacking for half a decade. And what if they were more than discussing him. What if they actually were… together… _

Arthur set the thought aside. There had never been any evidence that Curt was interested in women, no rumors of stars he’d shagged and shamed, though there couldn’t have been any shortage of willing bodies. Willing bodies. Is that what he was? Just a willing body, chasing a means to an end? And what was Curt’s end? There were no overnight stays, no declarations of romance - real or for show, no terms of endearment in the heated moments. Yet the moments were increasingly heated, and both men now clearly found the anticipation to be a sufficient aphrodisiac. Arthur was chasing an idea.... was Curt simply accepting an easy way to get off? Would that bother him, if it were true?

_ The phone rang, and he froze as though the person on the other end could see his thoughts  through the unanswered  line. He waited for four more rings, just in case he was being caught out. It was his mother. ‘Happy birthday,’ she’d said hopefully. He thanked her, lied about going out to the pub with the boys from the paper. When it rang again, he’d grabbed it quickly, assuming she’d forgotten to give him news about an uncle who’d gone on some holiday or other. The gruff ‘hullo’ told him immediately that he ought to have waited. _

‘Come over to mine,’ had been tonight’s offer. Curt was exhausted from a long day in the studio and had received a bizarre call. Fortunately, the blurted ‘I know,’ had been met with an understanding laugh. Arthur kicked himself when he realized that he’d been reaching for his jacket even before hanging  up the phone. It didn’t stop him walking out the door and pressing the button for the lift - for a man sleeping as well as he had been, he was  growing oddly exhausted himself. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sheet pulled up between his legs, Arthur was still catching his breath as he surveyed the man next to him. A lit cigarette already in hand, Curt was sweat-soaked and beautiful, exposed to the room as if putting himself on display for the world. Nothing about him suggested false humility, or even modesty, and one look over his slim body - particularly the part by which he and Arthur had been connected only moments ago - told why. 

_ Sinew and thin lines, lean muscles and calloused hands. Narrow thighs and slightly jutting hip bones, and not an inch less than the bulge in his torn, faded denim would suggest. Badly bleached hair and sparkling eyes, a smile that lied and said there had never been anyone else quite like this. Arthur sat up and rolled his shoulders, self-conscious for the first time since this had begun. Wondering for the second time if it had been a mistake. Longing for the millionth time to know, just to know, what it meant. _

Curt tapped his ash into a mug of water on the bedside table. ‘Stay,’ he’d said. Not asked. Not demanded. Simply… stated. And Arthur didn’t bother questioning his own motivation as he strode off silently toward the bath. It didn’t matter tonight. Tonight he would just… stay.

_ The yellow light shone onto the deep pile carpet, highlighting the color to a vibrant orange beneath the morning rays. The weight of an arm, strewn haphazardly across his chest, was the one detail of the room Arthur did not wish to have thrown into the stark relief of dawn. Curt had already asked him back tonight. Had casually mentioned that ‘a friend’ would be joining them, if he was interested. Arthur didn’t know whether he was interested, though he wanted to be, for reasons he really ought to explore. But until then, he required only one thing. _

Arthur rolled slowly to his left, extricating himself from the man unconsciously pinning him down. He dressed silently, awkwardly, in the center of the room, for fear of knocking into some desk or case and waking Curt. Why he needed to make an escape, he pretended not to know. Why he was intent on returning that evening, he would determine once he was out in the City, where he could think openly in the solitude of the perpetual crowd.

_ He heard his name, a breathy inquiry, hanging in the air behind the door as it clicked shut. The lift was faster than in his apartment, and for that he was exceedingly grateful. He’d offer some excuse if questions were asked later; he knew they wouldn’t be. His trainers hit the pavement and he was safe - from the morning after, but not from himself.  _


	8. Chapter 8

The ‘open’ sign flickered in the window of the diner. Arthur sipped at his coffee, watching the neon lights blink in and out. In and out. It felt as though it were a message for him, a description of his soul, his dilemma, laid bare. He should be getting round to Curt’s, he reflected, as the disaffected waitress refilled his mug. He was waiting. 

_ They were waiting. Why would he have invited someone… else. It wasn’t as though Arthur were naive enough to believe he was the only one. Curt was his only, true, but not for that reason. He winced - he’d forgotten to add more sugar - and was struck by a thought. Could it possibly be… her? No. No, he was certain that Curt had said ‘he.’ Hadn’t he? And did it matter? _

Of course it mattered, Arthur finally realized. It mattered. Not whether it was Mandy - that bit would make tonight uncomfortable, sure - but that wasn’t the crux of the matter, was it? It mattered because it wasn’t what he was. He didn’t want her - any her. And in that moment, he no longer wanted Curt. For ten years he had been hiding, and now, suddenly, staring at a sign with loose wiring and a rip in the fabric of his booth, he knew. There was nothing to hide. What he was capable of enjoying and what he actually wanted were not one in the same, and what he actually wanted was… nothing. No one. 

_ His lungs filled with air as if for the first time in his life. He left crumpled bills on the table and walked out, heading south toward the water. Arthur Stewart finally knew what he wasn’t, and more importantly, he knew what he was. And what he was, was better than that.  _


End file.
